Signs of Parity
by GemThest
Summary: After his best friend's death, John struggled to move on. Enter Mary, a caring woman who accepts John as he is. But when Sherlock returns, John must face feelings he didn't realize he'd repressed. Mary/John, Sherlock/John. Warning: Character death.
1. Prologue: Aftermath

**Author's Note: Readers of "The Slow Burn" – I tried to write some oneshots (I was not given any prompts). But this wanted to be written instead.**

**Story Note: This takes place during TRF, starting with and immediately following the shot of John in his chair, preceding his trip to the grave.**

John sat in his chair in 221B, staring across at the empty seat in front of him.

_This is wrong._

That was the only thought that crossed his mind. No justification, no stipulations, just that one, unending truth. _This is wrong._

His face tightened with grief and he dropped his gaze, staring unseeingly into the floor. His therapist's words came to mind.

"_There's stuff that you wanted to say…but didn't. Say it now."_

He still didn't want to say it. Saying those words would make it final, more so than watching the coffin being lowered into the ground. Saying those words would mean that _he_, that his best friend, was well and truly gone.

But the grief wasn't getting better. John knew he had to do something, had to find some way to take away the pain, even just for a little while. He had to show himself that he would be able to move on, eventually. His gun was starting to look a little too tempting. He knew that feeling; he had been here before.

He rubbed a tired hand over his face and stood. John knew he wouldn't be able to get all the words past his lips, but maybe…maybe he didn't have to.

He searched around the flat until he found what he needed and then, pen in hand, he sat at the table and smoothed out the paper.

He paused. He'd spent so much time refusing to even think his best friend's name it was a struggle to write it now. But he did.

He wrote. Once the words started he couldn't get them to stop. All the words he wanted to say, all the words he couldn't say, they made their way onto the paper.

There was no declaration. This wasn't a love letter; far from it. This was John's grief, his pain, and his despair. He didn't consider himself a writer – blogging about cases was far different from any form of advanced prose.

But with every word, every sentence, every finished thought, John let a piece of himself go. Every part of the life he had built with this man slowly came down, brick by brick through John's pen.

He wrote for so long that he had to find more paper, because once he started he couldn't stop. He had to get it all out, had to put everything on the table. If he left any of it hidden inside it would take hold and fester, would grow until it consumed him and his life. He had to let it all go so that whatever left that was pure John would be able to help him. To save him.

There was a pitiful amount remaining.

When it was done, when the letter was finally finished, John felt exhausted. It had taken far more out of him than he'd expected. He felt empty. But empty and tired was better than grieving and broken, so he accepted the change. Welcomed it.

He folded the sheets of paper and used a single piece of tape the keep them shut. After a moment of deliberation he wrote the recipient's name on the front, even though he would never read it.

John's eyes roamed the flat in search of somewhere to put it, finally resting on the skull. A flicker of a smile crossed his face.

"_That's a skull?" "Friend of mine. When I say 'friend'…"_

John tucked the letter under the bone, confident it wouldn't be disturbed.

He wasn't sure if he could remain at Baker Street. It would be difficult to continue if he let himself be surrounded by memories. But at the same time he didn't want to lose all the proof of his old life.

Those words sent a shot of pain through his leg. _Old life._ Old, as in gone. No longer the present, but the past. And the future…the future he had tentatively painted in his mind (he'd never brought it up, of course, but he had considered it) was gone, all possibility wiped away.

He would visit the grave tomorrow, he decided, straightening his shoulders. He would speak whatever words came to mind, whatever subconscious or repressed thoughts that came out during the night, and then he would walk away. Walk away and find some way to continue in his life.

He got ready for bed slowly. It was early, but he wasn't hungry and he didn't want to go out. He brushed his teeth, making eye contact with himself in the mirror and then looking away quickly. His eyes were dead, their color muted. He would have to work on that before he met with anyone else. He didn't want their pity.

John slowly made it up the stairs, the time for rushing over. He felt old, so old, older than he'd ever felt before. The thought of running was exhausting; laughing even more so. He used to jog up these stairs with a smile on his face.

That seemed impossible, now.

He shut the door behind him and discarded his jeans and jumper for pyjamas and a t-shirt. Lying down, he pressed his head into his pillow and did the last thing he knew he needed to do before he could move on, before he could start to put this behind him.

He cried.

John Watson wept for his friend, for the words he last said to him in person and the words exchanged over the phone. For the lies that caused him to take his own life, for the inability to do anything to help. John cried for what they had, what their friendship was turning into, the symbiosis the two had found together, making their way through the world. He cried for what they could have been, the future that was now a fantasy, the life he hadn't realized he'd wanted so badly until it was taken away.

John cried until there were no more tears and then, eyes still shut, he flipped his damp pillow around and let go, hoping for a dreamless sleep.


	2. Mary

**A/N: This work has some influences from ACD's canon (and Moffat and Gatiss's too, of course), and other things may trickle in subconsciously, but I am using extensive creative license.**

"John Watson," he answered the phone without checking the caller ID, focusing on the water he was pouring into the kettle.

"John? It's Greg." Lestrade. Why was Lestrade calling him now? They hadn't talked for weeks.

"What's up?" John asked, holding the phone between his ear and shoulder and reaching up for a mug. His fingers wrapped around two handles automatically, and he had to pause to make sure he only brought one down. He swallowed the sudden lump in his throat and focused on Lestrade's words.

"We were wondering if you could come down here."

"Did I do something wrong?" John couldn't imagine what use they would have for him, now that he was a consulting detective's assistant without the consulting detective.

"Not at all. But we – well, _I'd_ – like you to take a look at something." John's expression narrowed.

"Don't pity me, Greg."

"No, this isn't pity. I'm requesting assistance from a friend, that's all."

John debated that for a moment. There was no doubt in his mind this was more than just an "I need help" kind of call, but it had been a while since he'd gotten out of the flat other than to go to the surgery.

They had given him a couple of weeks off (which he didn't even realize because he hadn't contacted them) during which he distracted himself. He spent a lot of time walking around London, learning roads he'd never seen before because he avoided all the ones he had. Then one day Sarah called and said his leave was almost up, and he decided that continuing his work there would be the healthy way to go about things. He'd been back the next Monday morning.

Greg was still waiting on the other end of the call. John wasn't sure he was ready to talk to anyone, and he didn't want the familiar place to bring back memories, but maybe this would be another healing step. Maybe he needed to stop teasing at the edges and just rip the band-aid off.

"Okay, I'll come. Right now?"

"Soon as you can." John started dissembling his tea preparations. "We found this woman dead in a locked room."

"What was the cause?" John asked, pulling his jacket off the hook and slipping in his arms.

"Bullet wound. But it was locked from the inside, and we can't find any weapon." Lestrade sounded honestly frustrated.

"Hmmm…" John found himself more distracted that he thought he'd be, unintentionally interested. "Alright. I'm on my way."

"Great. Thank you."

"See you soon." They hung up and John flagged down a cab.

…

When he arrived at Scotland Yard Lestrade was waiting to walk him in. Surprisingly, John felt grateful. It was a childish dependency, and one he could do without, but it gave him something to focus on and made him feel like he wasn't being stared at quite so much.

"John." Lestrade held out his hand and John took it with a nod, the two of them then turning and walking to the DI's office.

"Do we have a motive?" John asked.

Lestrade shook his head. "Not yet. We're interviewing the family members. The only person we haven't been able to get a hold of is her boyfriend."

"Is that weird?" John thought it was, but he felt better phrasing it as a question.

"Usually, yes. In this instance, apparently he's on holiday."

"Without her?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Okay, so, a bit weird, yeah. But his ticket was scanned and his flight left on time. It looks like his phone doesn't have service in the States."

John nodded and looked at the folder Lestrade handed him. The victim's name was Emily Morstan. The pictures were thorough, getting the body from all angles as well as several shots of the room, which appeared to be a bedroom. They even had some with the doors of the wardrobe open.

John squinted, looking closer. Something seemed…off. Lestrade watched him curiously.

"What do you see?"

John shook his head mutely. Then he paused. "Why was she shot twice?"

"We're not sure. Do you want to see the body?"

John bit his lip. His patience was already wearing thin, and he could hear the whispers outside Lestrade's door.

But this _was_ interesting. John felt more alert than he had in days, and it was a nice break in the monotony that had consumed his life.

"Sure."

Lestrade nodded and the two of them headed to the morgue.

…

Molly pulled out the body, sadness is in her eyes. She avoided looking at John, which bothered him a bit but at the same time he understood. They hadn't actually talked since…well.

John shook his head and focused on the newly revealed body. She was young, probably in her early twenties. The bullet wound to the head was definitely what killed her, but there was another wound in her pelvis that, based on the coagulation of blood and lack of swelling, John deduced to have been made postmortem. Why would the murderer shoot her again, in that area, after she was already dead?

He shook his head; he didn't know.

Well, that was all well and good. The doctor stuff had always been pretty easy. But it didn't give him any more of an idea how she was killed in a locked room or who the murderer had been.

"She was alone when she died." Lestrade said, going to stand next to John. "But she didn't shoot herself because there's no gun."

"And it would be difficult to shoot your own pelvis after shooting yourself in the head." John added offhandedly, his eyes tightening as he took in the marks of self-harm on her arms and wrists.

When he looked up he noticed Lestrade's surprised expression.

"What?" John asked.

"How do you know that shot was second? We figured, it if was suicide, it could have been a form of personal punishment."

John nodded, understanding their thinking. "I see what you're saying, but no, she didn't kill herself. The body doesn't heal properly after death," he paused for the "obviously," but it didn't come. John blinked. "…which causes a slight change in the way blood clots and skin swells. That's I know that shot was second."

"Fantastic." Lestrade said, causing an ache in John's gut.

"_Do you know you do that out loud?"_

John closed his eyes briefly. "I don't see anything else here."

Lestrade nodded. "Would you like to go to the crime scene?"

John had made it this far. He may as well. "If you like."

Molly watched them leave, her eyes tearing a bit as she watched John's defeated tread, lacking the vigor and steadiness that used to define him.

…

Several policemen were still at the crime scene, the room roped off and the family members being questioned in other areas of the house.

John noticed Anderson when they walked in, but the man stayed uncharacteristically silent. He looked at John with interest, no annoyance or disregard in his expression. John met his gaze for a brief moment, but when he saw the pity he looked away. He wished he could wash himself of these feelings – it was hard enough making himself numb. When other people felt for him, it became impossible.

A young woman (John estimated about five years younger than himself, if the blond in her hair was natural) stood outside the tape across the doorway. Her eyes were puffy around the edges, indicating she'd been crying, but her face was calm. She smiled a bit when she saw him, which John found a little strange. He nodded his head toward her and then ducked under the tape, looking around.

The room looked just like it had in the photographs, minus the body. John glanced back, slightly concerned at this woman seeing the evidence of (her sister's?) the victim's death. She wasn't looking in the room, though, distracted by her phone. She seemed to sense his gaze and she looked up, meeting it. Her mouth twitched, and she wasn't smiling exactly, but it reminded John so much of his absent companion that he had to turn away and force himself to focus on the crime scene.

"Your men checked the room, right?" John asked Lestrade.

"Every inch. There's no way he could have gotten out. The window is still locked, which is also only possible from the inside. The glass hasn't been removed. And the walls are all uniform, there aren't any hollow spots. We even checked the floor," he gestured to where some boards had been lifted and then replaced.

"Hmmm…" John continued examining, his survey stopping when he reached the wardrobe. His eyes narrowed and he went into it, pushing aside the clothes and running his hand over the back. The wood was the same. He knocked, but it seemed thick all the way through.

He stepped out and to the side, and that was when he was able to put name to what had bothered him earlier.

"There's a hidden area in here." John said matter-of-factly, turning back to Lestrade. He looked at John in confusion. From the corner of his eye, John noticed the blonde woman watching them in fascination.

"How can you tell?" Lestrade asked, stepping in and knocking on the wood as John had done. John shook his head – it was well done, manipulating the acoustics so it wasn't immediately detectable.

"Look at the dimensions." Surely this was obvious? They better not be pulling his leg, letting him solve this to make him feel better. "The dresser goes all the way to the wall, yes? But when we go inside, there's not nearly enough space. It's like a sort of reverse-Narnia."

Lestrade nodded, getting the reference, and John felt unbalanced. Before he had time to dwell on it, though, he thought he heard something. A slight…shuffling, of sorts, like fabric against wood.

_Not completely soundproof, then_, he thought, reaching for the gun at the small of his back.

It wasn't there.

He hadn't brought the gun – in fact, it was still locked up in his safe, as he still didn't trust himself against the temptation.

Reacting quickly, he grabbed Lestrade's arm and pulled him out from in front of the wardrobe, quickly shutting its doors.

"He's still here," he said quietly, watching for any movement. "Get your men."

Lestrade made a motion with his hand and two men appeared, their expressions serious. Lestrade put a finger to his lips and pointed at the wardrobe. The four of them surrounded it, two on each side, and waited.

"He has a gun." Lestrade informed them quietly. Immediately the tension level in the room rose.

They waited, but nothing happened for long minutes.

John glanced back and saw the woman was still there, watching. He motioned for her to move and she did, stepping behind the wall. Then she poked her head around so she could see.

John rolled his eyes, but he found it just a little amusing. It was nice to see a woman fascinated by what was going on, instead of traumatized or crying. He knew he was making a generalization, of course, and he didn't want to imagine Harry's reaction to the assumption, but his time in the surgery exposed him to the heavier side of the average female's emotional spectrum.

They all remained quiet, waiting. Then John got bored and he reached across Lestrade to bang against the side of the wardrobe.

Lestrade gave him a "what the hell are you doing?" look, but John paid him no mind. He continued banging until he heard the inside door open and then he stopped, ready.

The doors to the wardrobe flew open and a young man stepped out, brandishing a gun. John ignored the apparent danger and lunged, wrestling the man to the ground.

The murderer wasn't expecting it. Wrongdoers with guns often assume it gives them uncontested power, but when someone stands up to them that power can change sides very quickly.

The man struggled, of course, but John had adrenaline coursing through his veins and the thrill of a fight like he hadn't felt in months. He knocked the gun from the man's hands and straddled him, holding down his hands. The other cops helped, grabbing his legs and handcuffing him, and soon enough they had the man restrained.

Once he was secure John got up, lacing his fingers behind his head to help him breathe after the exertion. Lestrade came back next to him, watching as the other two forced the man to sit on the edge of the bed.

" 'Every inch,' huh?" John quoted, still working on catching his breath. He chuckled slightly, just once, but the lack of a deep baritone joining him stole the laughter from his throat.

Lestrade looked at him oddly and then disregarded it. "I need to talk with him, but I'll need your statement."

"I'll wait over there," John motioned vaguely out of the room and Lestrade nodded, noting how he didn't fight it, didn't try to put it off.

John rolled his shoulders, stretching as he made his way over and ducked under the tape. The blonde woman was still there.

A little annoyed at himself by referring to her as just the "blonde woman," he walked over and held out his hand.

"I'm John Watson."

She took his hand. "Mary Morstan."

"I'm sorry about your sister." John tilted his head back for a moment.

"Cousin, actually." Mary replied, a bit of humor breaking through the sadness in her eyes.

"_There's always something."_

John didn't have time to dwell; Mary continued speaking. "You were amazing back there, though."

"I had a good teacher." John looked away.

Recognition lit up Mary's face. "Wait, John Watson? I read your blog. You worked with Sherlock Holmes!"

John had to reach for the wall to hold himself steady as his leg suddenly became unable to hold his weight. He felt lightheaded and his hand was trembling.

"Oh, I'm sorry." Mary's voice was immediately contrite. She reached out as if to comfort him, but then she hesitated.

John barely heard her. He slid down the wall and put his head in his hands, trying to force the memories out of his head.

"_The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street."_

"_What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"_

"_And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man."_

"_Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on."_

"_Don't make me compete with Sherlock Holmes!"_

"_It would take Sherlock Holmes to fool me…"_

"_Sherlock Holmes, I'm arresting you on suspicion of abduction and kidnapping."_

_Black, smooth marble: "Sherlock Holmes"_

John took several slow breaths, trying to control his heart rate. Mary sat down next to him, but he didn't acknowledge her. He opened his eyes and forced himself to examine the fabric of the carpet, to really _see_ what it was doing. He had to get rid of the images flashing through his mind, of blue-green eyes and turned-up collars and barely-contained smirks…

The closer he looked at the carpet, the more he could see. Little pieces of fuzz and dirt, marking years of use. A tiny bug crawled through the strands.

Tentatively, Mary laid her hand on John's shoulder.

John didn't react, didn't lean closer or pull away. Her fingers were warm, he noted. Her thumb started rubbing softly, and a flicker of something akin to comfort passed through John.

For that brief, brief moment, he didn't feel quite so hollow.

It took John several more minutes to feel like he was in control, but once he did he looked up and gave Mary an approximation of a smile. It turned out closer to a grimace.

"Thank you," he said quietly. She was pretty, he supposed. He had stopped thinking about things like that since the fall, seeing them as unimportant. It was so hard for him to stop blaming people for just being alive that he didn't imagine he'd ever be able to have a normal relationship with anyone again.

But she had a nice smile. And her eyes were a bright blue, which he liked.

"Don't be sorry. I understand."

From anyone else, those words would have been meaningless. But she had just lost her cousin. She did understand. And here she was, comforting _him_.

_This should be the other way round,_ John thought to himself. He had had time to get over it, time to feel better. This had just happened to her.

And, damn it, he had lost people before! Why was this one so much worse?

John welcomed the anger, the way it made him feel alive almost as much as the fight. And John used that to feel something else. He took that anger and remembered the momentary comfort and he forced it to spread, using it to rationalize his next words. He had to take further steps to move on, keep this from happening again.

"Would you like to go out sometime? Coffee, perhaps?"

Mary smiled, and the hand on his shoulder squeezed gently.

"Yes, John, I would."

John intended to get her details, but Lestrade came back.

"I need to talk with you, John," he said. John nodded and, with an apologetic look to Mary, stood up to follow Lestrade.

"I'll be back," he told her before walking away, out of earshot.

Lestrade looked at him, his expression serious.

"Do you want a job, John? I can't offer you one officially, unless you want to go through all the training, but you can do what Sh – " he noticed John's flinch and adjusted. " – what he did. And we can pay you for it."

"I don't need money." John said, remembering the last time he looked at his bank statement. He hadn't seen a will, but apparently he had been left everything. That or Mycroft was cushioning his account. The independence within John rebelled at being taken care of, but he figured it wasn't awful to let the money sit and accrue interest.

"However…" he really had enjoyed taking this case. Using the clues, figuring it out. It wasn't as spectacular a job as he had seen in the past, and he still wasn't 100% sure Lestrade hadn't just pretended to get John out of his funk, but it had felt good.

It had been so long since he'd felt anything resembling good.

"If you send me some stuff, I might look at it. I can't guarantee anything."

"Of course not. But thank you."

John nodded, and then Lestrade showed him the person who would take his account of what happened.

John got through it as quickly as he could, hoping Mary wouldn't leave before he could get her mobile. He needed a new distraction, and she was nice, and she seemed interested.

_I'm not leading her on_, he convinced himself, explaining to the officer how he knew where to look. _It's just one date, it's not a proposal._

When he managed to get free Mary was still there, waiting.

"Hi, John," she said with a smile.

"Hello," he nodded at the phone in her hand. "Can I have your number, then?"

"Of course." They exchanged information and John promised to call her to set up the details of their date. She walked him to get a taxi, sharing stories about her cousin's life.

_She's naturally happy,_ John realized as a funny memory made her smile. She was able to celebrate her cousin's life in death, instead of mourn the loss.

"How are you so happy?" he asked her before getting in the cab, his hand on the door.

Mary shrugged. "My cousin was not. She was depressed; I'm sure you saw what she did to herself. She had attempted suicide before. We weren't that close, but when that happened I decided I would be happy for her, because she couldn't be." Mary looked him straight in the eye. "I'm sad she's gone, and I miss her. But if I don't share the good memories, then no one else will."

John nodded, trying to see it from her point of view. He wished he could emulate that emotion toward death.

John lifted his phone. "I'll call you."

Mary nodded and smiled again, waving as the cab drove away.

John rested his head against the back of the seat, closing his eyes. He felt as if he could go home and sleep for days.

_But first,_ he decided, _I'll call Mary._


	3. Time

John tried to move on. Together he and Mrs. Hudson sent most of the science equipment to schools, donated them to students who wanted to expand their minds.

John found that fitting.

He kept some things, though. The violin, and the skull (the letter made its way over, too, although John didn't open it). They both found a place in his new flat, which was smaller than 221B. He still refused to touch the unearned money in his account.

John continued seeing Mary. She was nice. She didn't push him. She would fill the silence with words, even when John didn't listen.

But he tried to listen. He tried to be distracted. Some days were very good. Some days he filled his mind and he was able to forget.

The mornings were the worst.

Every morning there was a flicker of hope. Because as hard as he had tried to leave those words at the grave, they followed him in the vulnerable place between sleeping and waking.

"_One more miracle … Don't. Be. Dead."_

The possibility didn't fade. He thought it would. He thought that, over time, he could wake up without thinking he would see his best friend when he walked down the stairs.

But every morning it took the lack of stairs to remind him of the truth.

The nights were better. John learned to exhaust himself during the day. If work wasn't tiring enough then he would go running. He ran through unfamiliar locations, getting lost more than once. That forced his concentration, allowed him to forget. And then he was able to return to his flat and fall into bed, slipping easily into unconsciousness.

He started losing weight. He wasn't hungry anymore, and the nighttime runs began to transform his body. He became leaner, even smaller.

As a doctor, he knew he should be eating more.

As a man, he couldn't bring himself to care.

…

John continued to see his therapist. He didn't think it was helping, but he went anyway.

"Mary seems to be good for you, John," she told him once.

John shrugged.

"Tell me about her."

John made eye contact and then quickly looked back to the floor. "I think you're right."

"That's good, then. I'm glad you have her."

John paused. "I'm not sure."

"Why not?"

John swallowed. He hadn't ever voiced this, but wasn't that what therapists were for? "I'm not sure I'm good for her."

His therapist smiled. "You always worry about everyone else, John. It is okay to worry about yourself sometimes."

John shrugged again.

…

Lestrade kept sending him case files (or copies, at least). Sometimes he got called out on a chase. John relished those moments. It gave him meaning, it gave him an excuse to run himself ragged, increase his endurance.

_I'm doing good things,_ he told himself. _I'm helping people._

John didn't always send the case files back. He only replied if he saw something, which more often than not he didn't. But there was a brief rush of endorphins every time he helped solve a case, every time an idea popped into his head and his eyes were opened to the truth of the crime.

Sometimes those were the only times he felt alive.

Other times were with Mary.

…

The first time Mary made him smile, they were both surprised. She stopped in the middle of her story, almost gaping at him.

That caused the smile to drop off John's face.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"You – I mean, I always thought you were cute, but… you're really handsome, did you know that?"

John couldn't bring himself to smile again. The first one had felt foreign on his face, and it had been unconscious.

He knew he _should_ smile, but being complimented felt…odd.

"You're very pretty," he managed to return, and Mary blushed. Then she remembered the end of her story and continued talking as if there hadn't been an interruption. John appreciated that. She always knew to keep the conversation going, especially because some of the strangest things would set him off.

…

The first time Mary made him laugh, he couldn't stop. He didn't want to give up the feeling, the carefree joy and lightening in his chest.

She grinned at his reaction, and she seemed genuinely happy for him. But she hadn't actually thought what she'd said was funny – it was natural to assume that the sheets in Buckingham Palace were nicer than the ones available at local shops.

"_Are you wearing any pants?" "No."_

In that moment, John realized two things.

One – memories didn't have to be painful. He didn't have to completely cut himself off, which was good because he'd never been able to delete something from his mind, anyway.

Two – Mary was good for him. She didn't have to know his past to know him, and she was offering as much of herself as John would take. She didn't judge him; she accepted him. Mary made life bearable.

…

The first time Mary kissed him, he wasn't ready for it. He was in the middle of a sentence, talking for once, and she just leaned over and took his hand and kissed him. When she pulled away he blinked at her.

"Sorry," she blushed, letting his hand fall and looking away.

John didn't know how he felt. But he did know how _she_ felt, and he didn't want her to feel rejected. He lifted his hands, took her face between his palms, and kissed her back.

It became a sort of pattern. John learned to read when Mary wanted affection, and he did his best to provide. Whether she needed a kiss, or a hug, or she just wanted to cuddle when they watched a programme – John started to learn to read her moods, and he responded accordingly.

He was, actually, a very good boyfriend.

The lack of personal desire did make him a little worried. It wasn't that he didn't respond – no, he was still a man, and Mary was attractive and knew what she was doing. But he never initiated, he never felt the need until she coaxed it out of him.

With that worry came a new realization. He didn't have a desire for anything. He wasn't an acting force in the world; he was a reacting one.

…

The first time Mary told him she loved him, John froze. He hadn't thought about love in so long, and he refused to think about the future.

But he knew he liked Mary very much. He preferred her company over any others. It was nice not to be alone anymore, and she could make him smile, sometimes even laugh.

John doubted he would find anyone else like her. He knew he was broken; he didn't try to deny it. He knew that all the trauma he had been through was enough to scare most people away, that he brought a lot of baggage and could be difficult to deal with.

John cared for Mary, cared for her more than anyone else. She deserved so much better than him, but she didn't want better than him. John knew how lucky he was.

So when Mary told him she loved him, John smiled, and he took her hands, and he replied, "I love you, too."

Mary's smile lit up her face, and in that moment she was so beautiful. John decided to do everything he could to keep her smiling. He would make her happy, even if she could never fully return the favor.

…

"Do you want to talk about him?" Mary asked once, stroking her hand through John's hair. They were spread out on her couch, a game show on but the sound muted.

John shrugged, closing his eyes and trying to focus on her touch. He let it soothe him, and he searched for courage.

"He was brilliant," he said quietly, and he sensed Mary's immediate interest. "He was a genius, absolutely sensational. Annoying as hell, too." John's eyes were still closed, so he didn't see Mary's smile.

"He shot holes in the wall. With a real gun. And he wouldn't sleep, he claimed his body was just 'transport.' " John made quotation marks with his fingers. "He thought my blog was stupid, but I think he actually came to like it. He stole my computer and always managed to figure out the password."

John paused, and Mary pulled his head to her chest, resting her chin in his hair.

"He was utterly unique. He was Sherlock Holmes, and he was my best friend."

It was the first time John had said his name to her, and she felt that a wall between them had fallen. She pulled back so she could kiss him, and John tried to stop thinking.

…

One night John woke up in a cold sweat, his heart beating rapidly. That nightmare had been so _real_, so _vivid_.

He took several deep breaths, trying to calm himself. Then he felt a warm hand on his bare chest, and he glanced at Mary.

"Are you okay?" she asked, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

John nodded, not trusting his voice yet. He swung his feet out of bed and sat on the edge. Mary moved with him and wrapped her arms around him in a hug.

"What happened?" she asked quietly.

John opened his mouth to tell her, but then he shook his head.

"I need some water," he said instead, standing up. He went out to the kitchen area, leaving Mary in bed, and braced himself against the counter in front of the sink.

"_Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

"_Goodbye, John."_

John clenched his fingers and then slowly, shakily, took out a glass to fill it with water.

_You were never alone,_ he thought, wishing he could project his thoughts beyond the void and reach his friend. _Why couldn't you see that I was there? I was always there!_

The glass slipped and fell into the sink, spilling out. John sighed and refilled it, waiting until his hand stopped trembling before taking it back to the bedroom.

Mary sat up, waiting for him. John set his glass on the bedside table and climbed back in, offering his arm. Mary snuggled under it, sighing happily. John's heart clenched, and for a moment he hated himself for not being happy with her the way she was happy with him.

"D'you wanna talk aboutit?" she asked, her words slurring as sleep tried to claim her again. John shook his head and smoothed her hair with his hand.

"It's alright. Go back to sleep." He moved them down so they were horizontal again, and minutes later Mary's body was fully relaxed, indicating she was asleep.

John tried to follow, but his head was filled with the piercing gaze of his dead best friend.

…

One year after the fall, John visited the grave.

"I miss you," he said, resting his fingers against the smooth black marble. "That's all it is, really. That's all that's left."

His hand slid away and he blinked back the tears.

…

John didn't often use words to try to describe how he felt, because he spent a lot of time just trying not to feel. But if he did, he'd use just one, and it would be vacant.

That's not the word others would use.

Lestrade would say depressed. He only saw John at crime scenes or spoke with him over the phone, and sometimes it was just difficult to witness. John was trying so hard to be happy, but he kept failing. Lestrade knew John was putting up a mask for the world and he couldn't imagine how badly it hurt.

Mrs. Hudson would say removed. He didn't talk when it wasn't necessary – the only time she got to speak with him was when she visited or called him. He would respond to her but he wouldn't really ask questions, had a hard time getting engaged.

Mary would say healing. She saw him at his best; she witnessed the change from that first day at the crime scene through the months together. She saw his smiles and his laughter. She thought maybe she could fix him.

But John would say vacant. He went about the motions; he tried to show others what they wanted to see. He became so focused on doing what was right, what was _expected_, that he stopped being himself.

Because the loss of someone important, someone vital, is not something you can just get over or heal from. The holes don't fill up, you just get used to living with them.

So John felt vacant, but that was alright. Because it was better, better than hurting or fighting or hating or losing. These things took time.

He was just living life with a "For Sale" sign taped to his chest, because John no longer felt at home.

**A/N: Reviews are inspiration.**


	4. Sherlock

Sherlock was tired.

For more than a year he had worked, unraveling the many threads of Moriarty's web. The man was dead, but the system was not.

He barely slept. Only enough to keep going, to keep cutting the strings until it came down to the last: Sebastian Moran. Fittingly, this was the sniper whose job it had been to kill John. Sherlock found it appropriate that immediately after finishing Moran he could go back to his friend.

He missed John dearly. It was only the threat of John's death that kept Sherlock from returning, from confessing all and obtaining his assistance.

To focus, Sherlock had to remove himself from his emotions. He couldn't let himself think of John or of 221B and the friendship they had built there. He hated losing the consistency of John's presence. But he had to cut himself off from this hatred as well.

And it was exhausting.

But now it was done. All threads severed, Moran dead, and John safe. After only Molly and Mycroft as people to talk to, Sherlock found himself unaccountably excited to speak with John again. Some emotions were breaking through the cracks of the walls he had built within himself, light shining through the thick blackness. Excitement, apprehension, joy…and fear. Sherlock did fear John's reaction – he knew John's past, knew what this must have done to him.

But he'd had to do it.

…

Mycroft told Sherlock when John moved. It hurt, but Sherlock knew why John did it. He tried not to let it bother him. There was, after all, a simple answer: come home and move back in together. Mycroft kept paying the rent at 221B, told Mrs. Hudson he needed it for "government business," and she was too intimidated and grieved to resist.

Sherlock didn't go back there to change, though, didn't stop and reveal himself to her.

_John first,_ he decided. _John should be the first to know, now that he can._

So Sherlock was still wearing his disguise – a dark hooded sweatshirt, blue jeans, black glasses with thick rims – when he made his way toward John's new flat. His hair had been cut, as well, still curly but barely touching his ears and leaving the back of his neck completely exposed. He had dyed it initially, but the dye had since grown out.

He missed his coat. His coat and his suits. But he'd waited for 15 months, and he wasn't going to wait any longer.

…

Sherlock knocked on the door to John's flat, hands stuffed into his pockets, head down. He wanted the first time John saw him to also be the first time he saw John.

The door opened and Sherlock lifted his head, a smile unconsciously starting on his face.

"Hello, how may I help you?" Mary asked politely as she answered the door, looking up curiously at the unexpected visitor. Sherlock's eyes narrowed in momentary confusion.

_No shoes – comfortable on the premise; state of hair and lack of make-up – sleepover; no ring – girlfriend._

_John has a girlfriend._

Sherlock blinked, a sudden pain rising in his gut. Mycroft hadn't told him about this. What should he do now? Did John not want him?

"Mary, who is it?"

_John_. Sherlock's heart leapt and there was an unexpected heaviness behind his eyes. He blinked again and was about to answer Mary's question when John came up behind her, resting a hand on her shoulder.

Sherlock's eyes went to that hand (those fingers that had done so much for him, from pulling the trigger of a gun to preparing hundreds of cups of tea) and then travelled up his arm to his face, meeting John's eyes for the first time in far too long.

And, as so often Sherlock felt around John, he was out of his depth.

"Hello, John," he said quietly, staring into those familiar blue eyes, darker than he'd remembered. Sadder.

John's hand fell from Mary's shoulder and she glanced back at him, but John's eyes were transfixed on Sherlock's face. It was as if he had seen a ghost and, Sherlock had to admit, he basically had.

"Sher-?" John couldn't even say his name; it was more of a gasp than a word. Sherlock noticed as his hand started trembling and he gripped the doorway to keep himself upright. Mary looked at him in concern.

"John?" Mary glanced at Sherlock and then looked back to John. "Sweetie, are you all right?"

Sherlock's eyes tightened at the pet name, but he didn't look away from John's face. He'd waited so long to see John again.

But John looked different. He was thinner, much thinner, and bits of grey streaked through his hair.

"Mary, can – can you give us a moment?" John managed to say, eyes flicking to her before going back to rest on Sherlock's face.

Recognition registered in Mary's expression and she moved away, heading back into the bedroom. Sherlock watched her progress and then returned to John.

"Is it really you?" John asked, taking in all the changes. "How – how can it be?"

"I didn't do it alone." Sherlock replied, removing the pointless glasses and sticking them in his pocket. "But, John, please believe me when I say I had to do it."

"I must be going insane. I've finally cracked." John shook his head. Sherlock took a step closer, held out a hand.

"Touch me, John. I'm real."

They were still in the doorway, but Sherlock knew it wasn't his right to invite himself in. He had given that up when he'd let himself fall off that building.

John tentatively reached out his hand and grasped Sherlock's, fingers confirming what his eyes tried to say. Sherlock could feel his heart beating faster, and he knew John was checking his pulse.

An overwhelming sense of _rightness_ washed through Sherlock at the contact. This was what he'd been fighting for; this was why he'd been gone. For this man right here, standing in front of him.

"John, I'm so-" he was cut off abruptly as John pulled him down, wrapping him firmly in a hug. He tentatively lifted his arms to reciprocate, letting his eyes fall shut. The amount of weight John had lost really hit him then, driving home exactly how much pain he had caused his best friend.

_Brilliant, kill yourself in front of the man with PTSD._ Sherlock hated himself for what he had had to do.

John pulled back so he could see Sherlock's face again, eyes searching for…something. Sherlock wished he knew what he was thinking.

…

(_rewind)_

"Hello, John."

John was going mad. That had to be the answer. There was no way Sherlock – _Sherlock_ – was standing right here in front of him, looking no worse for the wear. Sure, he'd lost a bit of weight, and his hair was shorter, but that was nothing. His eyes were bright, alive, and John found that he couldn't look away.

"Sher-?" he rarely said the name and even now he found he couldn't, found his voice stolen from him by the apparition in his doorway. John gripped the frame to steady himself.

"John?" Mary was speaking, but John didn't understand the words. "Sweetie, are you all right?"

Sherlock's eyes tightened, and John noticed. But he hadn't heard Mary, so he couldn't understand why. Everything in his mind was Sherlock, because this could not be happening, could _not _be happening, and the entire way he had thought and lived for the last fifteen months had to be rearranged. It took him a minute, but then…

_Mary is here_, John realized belatedly. _Mary is still here._

"Mary, can – can you give us a moment?" John asked, barely glancing at her so he could keep examining the face of the dead man. He watched as Sherlock's eyes tracked Mary's progress and then returned, his stoic expression belied by the weight of his gaze, looking almost as desperate as John felt. John was terrified that if he looked away Sherlock would disappear.

"Is it really you?" John asked, the unfamiliar clothes, glasses, and haircut transforming Sherlock so well he had to ask, had to be sure. Hope was clawing at his chest, all the careful walls of distraction and acting caving, starting to break. "How – how can it be?" _I know I said miracle, but…how?_

"I didn't do it alone." That voice again. John knew that voice, knew it as well as he knew his own. Sherlock removed the fake glasses and yes, that was better. He looked a little more like Sherlock now. "But, John, please believe me when I say I had to do it."

"I must be going insane." John's grip on the doorway tightened, trying to confirm reality. "I've finally cracked." He shook his head. Now he was going to have to start medication. And what about Mary? This was probably a step too far…

Sherlock – or rather, John's hallucination of Sherlock – took a step closer, holding out his hand. "Touch me, John. I'm real."

John reached out, still unsure, and grasped the proffered hand. Trained fingers found the pulse point, detected the healthy throb of life. His hand was warm, was real. It was _Sherlock_.

The hope that had been tentatively fighting for the last few minutes exploded in a sudden rush, bringing with it a myriad of other emotions. Joy, confusion, anger, glee, frustration, need… John felt alive, more alive than he'd felt in 15 months.

"John, I'm so-" Sherlock started to speak but John pulled him down before he could finish, wrapping his arms around the taller man and holding him tightly. It was impossible, it was mad, and it was _brilliant_. John wanted to jump, wanted to laugh. Everything bubbled up inside, every repressed emotion flooding as the holes he had grown used to were suddenly filled.

John pulled back so he could see Sherlock's face again, because he needed to see those eyes, needed to see the life and the intelligence behind that sharp gaze. He raked his eyes over Sherlock's features, but the man seemed perfect, untouched.

"Impossible," he breathed, one hand reaching up unconsciously to press the tips of his fingers lightly against Sherlock's cheek. For a brief moment Sherlock leaned into the touch, and then he seemed to realize what he was doing.

"I think you mean improbable," he replied, a faint smile beginning on his lips. John grinned at the sight and Sherlock smiled in response.

"John?" Mary. John's eyes widened as he remembered Mary and his hand fell from Sherlock's face. He glanced back and saw her as she walked through the doorway, not having witnessed the embrace. "John, are you going to make your guest continue to stand outside?"

John shook his head at her and looked back at Sherlock.

"Would you like to come in?" he asked, stepping to the side a bit. Sherlock nodded and walked past, brushing against John slightly. The realness was beginning to sink in and questions started to flood John's mind.

Sherlock stood awkwardly in the middle of the main room, unsure of his place. John gestured toward the couch.

"You can sit down," he offered, a smile beginning again. It was so different to see an unsure Sherlock, a Sherlock who cared about what others thought.

John realized that that was what it was. Sherlock cared about what he was doing, about how he was acting toward John and how John felt.

That's why John didn't let his anger show. He was beginning to get angry now, because _why_ would you do something like that? _Why_ would you put your friend, your closest friend, through so much pain?!

But he knew Sherlock, and he read Sherlock's nervousness in the curve of his shoulders and the tilt of his head. And there were so many other emotions coursing through John that it was easy to ignore the anger, because he was full for the first time in far too long and there was more emotion than space within him.

Sherlock sat at one end of the couch, on the edge, folding his hands together on his knee.

"Would you like something to drink?" Mary offered. Sherlock looked over at her, and John saw that he was analyzing. They had a lot to talk about.

"Water, please," Sherlock replied quietly, and the moment Mary turned he looked back at John, watching his friend apprehensively.

John went to sit next to him and Sherlock adjusted so they were facing each other.

"Where would you like to start?" Sherlock asked him – because of course he knew that there were hundreds of questions within John's mind.

John felt as though he would never be able to look at Sherlock enough. Those eyes – he was once again amazed by how bright they were – his hair, his cheekbones, everything that made up Sherlock was there, alive with animation. John saw the rise and fall of Sherlock's chest as he breathed and John ached with the joy of the impossible being handed to him on a silver platter.

Sherlock's mouth twitched with a smile while he waited for John's response; John had barely heard the question.

"You do not have to limit yourself." Sherlock said, and the confusion caused by those words sharpened John's focus. "You may use all your senses to gather whatever proof you require."

Sherlock was giving him permission – _again_ – to touch him.

…

(_rewind)_

"Would you like to come in?"

Sherlock nodded, yes please, he would very much like to come in, and as he entered his upper arm brushed very lightly against John's chest. For a moment he wished he'd left the sweatshirt behind.

He was nervous. It was an emotion he was not accustomed to, but it filled him as he stood in the middle of John's central room, still unsure of how welcome he was. John had certainly seemed happy to see him, and he personally was very pleased to see John, but there isn't really an etiquette for how to act when one returns to life and shows up at his best friend's doorstep.

"You can sit down," John told him, smiling slightly. That relieved Sherlock, both because John needed to smile more and because it meant he was wanted, at least for now.

Sherlock went to the edge of the couch, not wanting to seem too familiar, and sat down slowly. He didn't know what to do with his hands so he folded them together on his knee.

Mary was watching the interaction, and she gained Sherlock's attention when she spoke. "Would you like something to drink?"

Sherlock didn't want to be rude (well, that was a lie, he had a powerful urge to be rude to Mary, but he thought that would be a bit not good) and he wanted an excuse to be alone with John again, so he replied, "Water, please."

Sherlock watched John carefully, worried that now the hugging was done the fighting might start. He knew John had a violent side, and while it had never truly been turned on him, if he had done anything to deserve it, it was this.

John came over and sat next to him and a tiny bit of relief spread through Sherlock. He turned so they were facing each other. He saw the questions in John's eyes.

"Where would you like to start?" he asked, opening up the conversation.

John didn't appear to have heard him. John was studying him, taking in his features as if he'd never seen them before. Sherlock understood the desire, fully comprehended how John was feeling. He smiled slightly, just a twitch. He knew what he would want if the two of them switched places. He decided to offer that to John.

"You do not have to limit yourself." Sherlock found himself wanting John to touch him, wanting those fingers on his cheek, to trace his features and rest against his chest just as John's eyes were doing. "You may use all your senses to gather whatever proof you require."

It had worked before. Touching his hand and hugging had given John confidence to let him into his flat. Perhaps further physical contact would allow John to feel comfortable enough to talk about everything.

Anticipation began to rise within Sherlock, and all of a sudden he felt very wrong with Mary in the other room. She didn't belong here anymore, didn't belong in John's life anymore.

As if his thoughts had called her she returned, handing him the glass of water and sitting on John's other side. She rested her hand on his knee and Sherlock felt jealousy rise within him.

_I did this,_ Sherlock reminded himself. _Of course John found someone._

Although, judging by the way John was looking at him, he hadn't. Not fully.

Well, this was both better and worse than what Sherlock had expected. It appeared John had missed him just as much as he'd missed John, but unlike him John had needed someone else to help fill the void. Mary was an unaccounted variable, and Sherlock didn't know what to do with it.

He shifted, speaking with his body in ways he had done in the past. If anyone could read him, it was John.

_I'm sorry._

John's mouth tightened at the corners and his eyebrows lifted. _I missed you._

A flick of Sherlock's eyes. _Girlfriend?_

A miniscule shrug. _What was I supposed to do?_

_I missed you too._

They paused, a moment for each of them to reflect and wonder.

_What now?_

"So, you _are_ Sherlock, right?" Mary finally said, realizing that if she let them be they probably wouldn't speak for a while. "_Sherlock_ Sherlock."

"No, Sherlock _Holmes_." Sherlock looked over at her, but the flash of worry in John's gaze made him temper his words. His next sentence was kinder. "And you are?"

"I'm Mary. Mary Morstan."

Sherlock debated, and then, John in mind, he held out his hand for her to take. "Nice to meet you, Mary. Cousin of Emily?"

Mycroft had told him the details of the case and Sherlock had solved it from that – no pictures or visits necessary. But he was proud of what John had done. Although if that was what led him to this woman… Sherlock shoved the thought away.

Mary nodded, a little surprised. "You are good, aren't you?"

"Hardly difficult." Sherlock blew it off – after all, he could have easily heard about it in the news.

Mary smiled self-consciously. "John told me a little about what you did – do. So my perception is probably a bit skewed."

Sherlock nodded in acceptance of that. He didn't want to be talking to John's girlfriend though. He wanted to be talking to John.

Their eyes met and John saw what Sherlock wanted, what he needed.

"Mary, Sherlock and I need to talk." John said, turning to face her. She nodded in understanding.

"Of course. I'll see you later tonight?"

John made a strange movement, somewhere between a nod and a shrug that ended up looking like neither. "I'll call you."

Mary nodded again and, with one last look at Sherlock, stood up and went to get her shoes and put up her hair so she could leave. She came to John again before she left.

Sherlock watched as Mary ran a hand through John's hair and leaned down to kiss him goodbye. His jaw clenched, but if he ignored his personal reaction he could see the discrepancy.

_She always initiates. This is not John's normal type of relationship._ Sherlock had seen enough of John's dating habits to know he usually pursued and tried to be at least an equal participant. _He's settling._

The thought made him the odd combination of happy and sad, and Sherlock didn't know what to do with that.

Then Mary left, and John and Sherlock were alone.

After a moment of silence, John asked, "What now?"

"I could ask the same of you."

John paused, then said quietly. "I'm glad you're back."

"I am, as well." Words were failing him. Sherlock wished they weren't quite so British, that they could stop being polite about it and share exactly how they felt.

Is that what he wanted? Was he looking for a declaration?

Being away from John for so long had begun to show Sherlock exactly what the man meant to him. There had been a reason Sherlock never corrected anyone when they said they were a couple. They were two halves of a whole, only lacking in the physical. A couple was the easiest way to put it, because they were certainly more than just "friends."

Sherlock didn't know what he wanted from John. He just knew that he wanted John, and that this Mary had far more than he was willing to share.

"She seems…" the words Sherlock wanted to say were not appropriate, so he settled for the cliché. "…nice."

John laughed. "Yes, I supposed she is." He reached up, almost unconsciously, to smooth down where her fingers had tufted up his hair.

"You kept my violin." Sherlock remarked, having noted its position when he first entered the flat. John nodded.

"And the skull. But we gave the science stuff to a school."

"We?" Images of John and Mary going through his stuff, laughing while they packed, made him feel ill.

"Mrs. Hudson and I." Ah, that was much better.

"I understand. I can always get new equipment."

John nodded.

There was a pause.

"Do you want a cup of tea?" John asked, not wanting to leave Sherlock but desperately needing something to break the slowly rising tension in the room.

Sherlock nodded, but as John stood up and started to walk away he had a flashback to watching John at the headstone, so he stood and followed him. John glanced back in surprise but smiled, and Sherlock leaned against the doorjamb as John prepared their drinks.

"Mycroft and Molly." Sherlock said as John reached for the mugs. John looked at him and blinked. Sherlock expanded. "They were the only ones who knew."

"Ah." John's eyes fell to the ground and Sherlock realized how it must have sounded to him.

"I needed her for it to work."

"Of course." John nodded but his back was turned as he tended to the kettle. Sherlock watched as he took a deep breath and his shoulders tightened, bracing himself. "Didn't need me, then?"

Sherlock wished he could see John's face. "John…"

John turned to face him, and Sherlock was surprised by how distraught he looked. "I mean, I'd been there from the start, right? All my available usefulness must have been used up."

"No, that's not –"

"Of course not – I had to be left in the dark, is that it? There was no other way. I'm sure it was Moriarty's idea: 'convince John that you're dead and I'll let you live'." John curled his fingers to indicate quotes. "Or maybe it was bigger than that. Bigger than my _feelings_ – because of course, they're just distracting from the work. From the brilliant game that Moriarty set up, all for you."

John ran a hand over his face, visibly tried to calm himself down. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John beat him to it. "Fifteen months, Sherlock. And every single morning I had to wake up and fight my own consciousness that wouldn't stop hoping for your return. Every morning I had to relive that loss."

John's eyes met his again, and Sherlock saw the shattered man for what he was. He was broken.

_I must fix him._

John's voice became exhausted. "I just wanted it to stop."

A chill ran through Sherlock at the implication of those words.

"What do you want me to do, John?" his voice was low. "It is as you say. There was no other way."

"I had to bury you, Sherlock!"

Sherlock, while sympathetic, knew there was a double-standard being held. "If I had not done what I did, then _I_ would have had to bury _you_."

Sherlock stared at John, reading his pain, and felt a hatred toward Moriarty stronger than anything he'd ever felt before. The thrill of the game, of the brilliance of it all, was not worth _this_.

"John, please…" Sherlock did not do emotions. He did not even understand his own; how was he going to cater to John's? "What do you want me to do?"

…

_(rewind)_

"I just wanted it to stop."

John felt drained. The sudden upsurge of feeling combined with his emotional words had put his body through more stress than it was used to experiencing. This was unexpected; he'd thought the joy of having his best friend back would continue to override everything else.

But Sherlock had triggered something with that comment about Molly, and John knew he was being irrational, but _damn it_ he had hurt so much, and Sherlock deserved to know what he had done, and John found it extremely annoying that what he wanted most was comfort but he wanted it from the person who had hurt him in the first place.

"What do you want me to do, John?" Sherlock's voice was low. "It is as you say. There was no other way."

John gave up on any measure of calm. "I had to bury you, Sherlock!"

For the first time, Sherlock's voice rose. "If I had not done what I did, then _I_ would have had to bury _you_."

John stared at Sherlock, reading his pain, and knew it was not the path that he had wanted to take. Not the ending that should have happened.

But it wasn't over now, was it?

"John, please…" Sherlock was asking, nearly pleading, and John knew he had to give him the benefit of the doubt. "What do you want me to do?"

The shrill call of the kettle delayed his response and he turned around to finish preparing their tea. He handed Sherlock's cup to him and then grabbed his other hand, pulling him back to the couch and then releasing him, turning so they were facing each other. John steeled himself, hardening his expression.

"Explain."

So Sherlock did.

Sherlock explained everything, from how he survived the fall to how he faked the lack of a pulse. He described the insanity of Moriarty on the roof, how not only John but Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade were also in danger. He talked of how he spent nights in dank and dirty hideouts, seeking out the information he needed to take down the threads of the madman's web. He explained how Mycroft was his only steady contact, sharing information and working together more peacefully than they had done since they were children. He described his few phone calls with Molly, made mostly to assure himself that there were people waiting and there was an end in sight.

Finally he reached the final battle, the one between him and Moran, the victory that would allow him to return home.

"I wished to have you with me, John," he finished, his tea sitting untouched on the coffee table. "I didn't leave because I couldn't use you, or because I didn't want you. I left because only your conviction of my death was keeping you safe."

John kept silent, absorbing everything he had just learned. The way Sherlock told it, there really didn't seem to be any other way.

He was surprised by the amount of emotion Sherlock had shown while telling the story, and John found himself unable to deny the honesty when Sherlock described wanting to have him with him. Sherlock had changed these last fifteen months.

"John?" Sherlock asked after another moment of silence. "Do you believe me?"

John nodded, looking at his last sip of tea and choosing to set the cup down on the table. "I believe you."

Sherlock's shoulders visibly relaxed. "I thought you might punch me."

"I wanted to, for a minute." A smile crossed John's face. "But I've done that before, and I have to say, it's a little overrated."

Sherlock chuckled at the unexpected reply and John's smile widened in response. Now that John knew the truth, he felt exponentially better. He could put the last fifteen months of hell behind him. Except…

"Mary," Sherlock said, eyeing John curiously. "I believe it is your turn to enlighten me."

John broke eye contact, his expression becoming worried. "I met her a couple of months in. You mentioned Emily – I solved that case, and Mary was there."

Sherlock nodded, but his expression was expectant.

"I love her." John shrugged. "At least, I think I do. She made life… livable."

"So you intend to continue seeing her?"

John nodded. "She stuck with me, even when I wasn't worth being around. I can't just dump her. And I don't know that I want to." John knew his heightened emotions in regard to Sherlock meant _something_, but he was far from trying to label them. He would stay Sherlock's friend, there was no doubt about that. But it was better to also stay with Mary. Mary was safe.

"But…" Sherlock's face twisted like something unpleasant had just occurred to him. "You will return to Baker Street, yes?"

John bit his lip. As much as he wanted to regain his old life with Sherlock, things had changed. And maybe he would not have hurt so badly these past months if he hadn't been so Sherlock-centered. "I…"

Sherlock stood abruptly and faced away from him.

"Sherlock, I don't know!" John tried to keep his tone from pleading – but doing so made it sound almost angry. "My life isn't just about me anymore, can't you see that?"

"Do you plan to live alone, then?" Sherlock was still turned away from him. His tone did not betray his emotions; he sounded almost bored. "Or will you cohabitate with Mary?" On her name his voice faltered slightly, but he remained firm in his stance.

"I want to live with you at Baker Street." At his words Sherlock turned and they locked eyes. For a fleeting moment John wanted to grab Sherlock's arm and force him closer, close enough to touch. He resisted.

"Then do."

John sighed. "It's not that simple."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Why not? You are an adult; you can make your own decisions."

"I can't – I can't just _jump_ back into life with you, Sherlock. It's been a long time, we've both changed…" John's voice faded as Sherlock took a step away from him. _No!_ "I have other responsibilities now."

"You mean Mary." Pain laced Sherlock's features for a brief moment before he regained control over himself. "She is not your wife; you have made no contractual agreement with her."

"I haven't made one with you, either." John reminded him. He sighed again. "Look, Sherlock, I don't want to fight about this. I am beyond happy to have you back. I – I really missed you, okay? Can we just focus on that?" Sherlock's eyes met his again. "There's time to figure everything else out."

"There is never as much time as we believe."

John's eyes narrowed. "You think I haven't learned that?"

Sherlock's expression became slightly abashed. "That's not what I meant."

"No, I know what you meant." John needed him to stay. "Please, Sherlock. Please will you be my friend?"

Sherlock came back, regained his seat next to John and looked at the other man seriously. "Of course."

…

John did call Mary that night, but he did not arrange to see her. She understood, knowing the two men would want time to catch up and reestablish their friendship.

And that's what they did. Sherlock and John put on some crap telly and spent the majority of the time ignoring it, talking about cases and experiments and the surgery, about Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson. They made popcorn and Sherlock made John laugh by throwing it at the screen when he decided the actors or characters were "too stupid to deserve dignity."

They could both tell the other was trying so hard, because they wanted their friendship back. There were outside forces they had to deal with, and they could feel the pressure, knew the time would come, but they took that night to just be together. It was what they both needed.

It only ended when Sherlock started dozing sitting up on the couch and John went and got a blanket for him. The movement woke Sherlock momentarily and he looked at John through bleary eyes.

"What are you doing?"

"Making you comfortable so you can sleep."

Sherlock frowned. "I'm not sleeping yet."

John sighed but sat back down next to him. "Fine. Take it anyway."

Sherlock grumbled but didn't make any distinguishable words, so John ignored it. He threw the blanket over his tall friend and Sherlock stretched out on the couch, plopping his feet in John's lap. John threw him an exasperated look but let the action stand.

John turned to watch the screen, getting lost in his own thoughts until he realized Sherlock's breathing was deep and steady, indicating he was asleep. Slowly John lifted his friend's feet and got off the couch, setting them back down gently.

"Goodnight Sherlock," he said, confident that the man would be there in the morning. John clicked the remote and flicked the light switch, plunging the room into darkness.

Sherlock waited until he heard the latch of John's bedroom door.

"Goodnight John."

**A/N: What did you think?**


	5. Revelation

John woke up slowly, clinging to the unfamiliar feeling of contentment. He pulled his duvet up over his shoulders and burrowed his head into his pillow.

_Five more minutes,_ he told himself groggily, mentally trying to reach inside and grab hold of the happiness.

Too soon, though, those five minutes were over, and John's mind started to come back online. But…the good feeling didn't fade. He rubbed his eyes and then opened them, looking around his room as though it would contain the answers.

_Where is that knot of dread?_

John was accustomed to waking every morning with the belief that Sherlock was alive, and he prepared himself for the disappointment of the truth.

Then the events of last night came rushing back and a wide smile spread over his face. Sherlock was back!

He threw off the covers, suddenly needing to prove to himself that his memory was working, that it wasn't just an elaborate dream his mind was using to protect him. He headed toward the door, intending to check first thing, but as he passed his side table he noticed his phone, flashing with a new message.

_Still here. SH_

The smile returned, relief flooding his body, and John allowed himself to get dressed.

When he entered the main room he had to laugh. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, knees to his chest, arms around his shins, eyes closed, the very picture of concentration – except for the mussed up hair and wrinkled clothing, clearly stating he slept on a couch last night.

"Have a good night?" John teased, ruffling Sherlock's hair in passing on his way to the kitchen. John was _starving_.

Sherlock's response was to inhale deeply and open his eyes, watching John's path. He stood from the couch and retrieved his violin while he waited for John to return.

In time John did and the two of them were quiet, Sherlock plucking at the strings softly and John focusing on his food. It was soft and familiar, the way they had spent many mornings at 221B. The location may be different, but their friendship was still intact.

John was reassured. He wasn't sure if he would know what to say, if Sherlock had changed so much – or if he himself had changed so much – that they wouldn't be able to relate to one another after the shock had worn off. But here they were, and it was normal.

When he finished they made eye contact and Sherlock quirked a brow.

"What?" John asked, trying to keep his expression serious but struggling because he wanted to grin. _I'd forgotten what it was like to just be happy._

"What are your plans for today?" Sherlock asked. He seemed far more interested than the question usually called for.

John shrugged. "I guess I don't really have any. Nothing from Lestrade, and I'm not on at the surgery today."

He paused, thinking for a second. "I'll probably want to see Mary at some point." At the moment, the only person he wanted to see was Sherlock, but that didn't bother him. He'd need more than one night for that desire to fade.

Desire. Hm.

"Lestrade doesn't know yet." It took John a moment to pick up on Sherlock's train of thought.

"You mean – you mean you haven't told him you're alive?"

Sherlock shook his head.

John felt good. He knew before Lestrade; that was something. "But you told Mrs. Hudson, right?"

There was a slight hesitation, and then Sherlock shook his head again. John's mouth opened slightly in surprise.

"Really? But I thought…"

"I told you, John. Molly and Mycroft. Now you… and Mary." Sherlock tilted his head at his friend.

The corners of John's mouth started to lift. "I didn't realize – so I was the first person you told, once everything was safe?"

Sherlock nodded, smiling slightly in response to John. "Do you really think I would have worn _this_," he gestured down at himself, the rumpled sweatshirt and jeans, "had that not been the case?"

The burst of joy in John's chest was unexpected and he had the sudden urge to hug Sherlock. _Strange…must be leftover from the "you're alive!" revelation._ "True. Well, I know what my plans are now."

Sherlock lifted his eyebrows in question.

"I'm going to watch everyone's reaction to your resurrection!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I am not Christ, John."

John just laughed.

…

"Mrs. Hudson?" John called, opening the surprisingly unlocked door into their old hallway.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's startled voice answered him, though he could not see her. John made his way toward her door and the sound of her voice, Sherlock following quietly behind. John knocked and Mrs. Hudson was right there at the door, opening it so quickly Sherlock barely had enough time to step with the movement and remain hidden. John caught his eye and Sherlock winked.

"Hello, Mrs. Hudson," John smiled at her and she smiled back, but he could read the confusion in her face.

"John, dear, what are you doing here? I mean, of course you're welcome anytime, but I wasn't – you haven't visited since, well." She shook her head. "Do you want to come in for a cuppa?"

"I have a surprise for you." John grinned and Mrs. Hudson stared.

"John, you look so happy!" How sad it was, that John being happy was cause for such surprise. _I didn't fool anyone._ "Did you propose to Mary?"

John shook his head, slightly caught off guard. _Should have expected that, though_. "No, uh, no. Here, let me show you." His eyes flitted over to Sherlock, who was still waiting quietly, though John could tell he was getting restless.

Sherlock took the cue and stepped around the open door, putting himself in Mrs. Hudson's view. Her eyes widened and she imitated John's initial reaction, one hand reaching out to the doorframe to hold herself steady.

"I heard you gave away all my equipment." Sherlock said, a wry grin spreading across his face. Mrs. Hudson shook her head in disbelief. It didn't last long, though.

"Of course we did, you were dead!" she managed to regain herself and she stood up tall, altogether taking Sherlock's reappearance more naturally than John had. "I guess you managed to outsmart us all again, did you? How could you do that to poor John?" John averted his eyes as Sherlock looked at him, not wanting his best friend's pity any more than he'd wanted anyone else's.

"I was given no other choice. I would be happy to explain it all, if you are willing to let us in." Sherlock's eyes were soft as he looked at his old landlady.

"Oh, come here, you," she held out her arms and Sherlock leaned down to hug her, pausing to kiss her on the cheek before completing the embrace.

Mrs. Hudson insisted on making tea for the two men, refusing to let them help. So John and Sherlock sat together at her little table while she bustled about, her motherly nature washing over them. John felt more at home than he had in a long time.

Once the tea was ready and the three of them were settled, Sherlock began his story. He watched Mrs. Hudson's reactions, although on occasion he and John made eye contact.

John didn't enjoy the retelling – it had been hard enough the first time, and knowing what was coming next didn't make it any easier. But of course he stayed anyway.

When Sherlock finished Mrs. Hudson reached forward and took his hands in hers, saying sincerely, "I'm so sorry, sweetie."

Sherlock shook his head. "You have nothing to apologize for. I'm just glad you're safe."

John was focused on his tea, so he didn't notice Mrs. Hudson's surreptitious glance at him. Nor did he see the twinkle in her eyes as she did so, indicating she read something else in Sherlock's words.

She patted Sherlock's hands and then withdrew her own, resting them against her cup of tea. "What now, dears?"

John heard the plural and looked up, realizing he was being included in the conversation. Sherlock was watching him, letting him respond first, and John found that quite odd. He wasn't sure he liked it – it wasn't _Sherlock_.

"Lestrade?" he offered, tilting his head at his friend. Sherlock grinned.

"Lestrade."

…

As they settled into a cab to make their way toward Scotland Yard, Sherlock felt the ease of contentment spread through his mind. He glanced at John, once more at his side, and he had to turn to the window to hide his smile.

Sherlock _had_ fallen asleep last night, but he'd been awake for an hour before John had arisen, giving him plenty of time to send the text and think.

He'd known John would need the reminder, that the man would have acted without thinking and rushed out in his pyjamas had Sherlock not taken action. Sherlock realized he needed to place a barrier in his mind – he could only think of John as a friend, because John had Mary now, and Sherlock knew it was John's choice.

If he had seen John in his bed clothes, though, possibly shirtless, Sherlock had little confidence that he would be able to keep that barrier in place.

By his very nature Sherlock was selfish and possessive – he had no qualms about it, had learned it about himself from a very early age. Part of it came from having Mycroft as an elder brother, smarter than him but not as energetic. Sherlock knew that if he shared everything with Mycroft then his brother would solve it faster, understand it sooner. So Sherlock had hoarded what he learned; would seek out the books and the information while Mycroft waited for it to come to him.

Sherlock wanted to be better than his brother.

But ever since Sherlock had met John – since he'd found someone who not only didn't want to change or challenge him, but encouraged his genius and was a support to his lifestyle – Sherlock saw himself putting the other man first. Somehow Sherlock's happiness had become tied to John's; the man had entwined himself so effortlessly and intricately to Sherlock's life that it wasn't like they were two people anymore. It wasn't so much that Sherlock stopped being selfish or possessive; it was that he viewed John as an extension of himself, a vital and treasured piece.

When Sherlock fell off the building, convincing everyone he was dead, he wasn't just saving John's life – he was saving his own.

Although doing so had allowed this woman to step in.

Thinking of Mary had a very base part of his mind challenging her, growling that John was _his_. _His_ friend, _his_ companion, _his _John. But Sherlock prided himself on his higher thinking, and he was accustomed to shutting that part of him up.

It was a little harder after this separation, though; he had expected to have time to sort things out, expected to return to the way life had been before and be able to talk with John about these unusual feelings that had started to grow within him. To come home and have such a large part of John taken away, claimed by this unfamiliar woman, was entirely unexpected and gave that base part of him a stronger hold.

Sherlock knew he couldn't focus on that, though. He had to keep his barrier, had to allow Mary's claim and John's wishes.

"_I can't just dump her. And I don't know that I want to."_

This was John. Sherlock had to respect that.

That didn't mean he had to like it.

The car pulled up in front of the Yard and the two men got out, Sherlock stuffing his hands into his thankfully returned coat. It was an item Mrs. Hudson had held onto, the way John still had his violin and skull. Unfortunately, he had yet to find his scarf.

They didn't plan an intricate surprise, opting to just show up and enjoy the resulting confusion. So Sherlock and John walked into Scotland Yard together, John falling into step beside him, and moved decisively to Lestrade's office.

A couple of people stared as they entered and there were at least three double-takes, but John and Sherlock didn't slow. Sherlock kept his face clean of emotion, but he could see the smile fighting at the corner of John's lips. After fifteen months of little smiling himself, Sherlock wanted to put as many as he could on his friend's face.

"It's as if they've never seen me before!" Sherlock muttered to John as they passed one man whose mouth was actually hanging open. John did smile, though it was slightly exasperated. Sherlock would take it.

"Zombies are all the trend, didn't you hear?" John replied, glancing up quickly. "Maybe they're waiting for you to attack my neck."

Sherlock swallowed and forced his thoughts away from John's neck. "That's illogical."

"Thanks for your input, Spock." John raised an eyebrow at him and Sherlock found himself smiling.

That smile was still fading as they walked into Lestrade's office, where the Detective Inspector was on the phone.

"What do you mean 'you've seen him'? That's completely ridiculous…" he looked up and saw John and Sherlock in front of him, and his eyes widened almost comically. "I'll call you back."

Lestrade hung up the phone without waiting for a reply and just stared at the two men. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"But you're _dead_!" Lestrade finally exclaimed, and Sherlock watched the thoughts race through the man's mind. "I saw…I saw the report, and John…" Lestrade glanced at John and Sherlock did as well. John looked displeased at the attention shift, the amusement slipping off his face. Sherlock decided to distract him.

"I shall have to thank Molly. She is very good at keeping a secret."

Though the words were directed toward John, who smiled slightly, Lestrade grabbed onto them. "Molly knew?"

Sherlock nodded. "Of course she did. I couldn't have pulled it off without her."

Lestrade's eyebrows creased in momentary confusion. Molly's feelings for Sherlock were abundantly clear to everyone, as well as Sherlock's manipulation and near disdain for her. That interaction had not remained static, however. Sherlock had grown to appreciate her in the time leading up to his fall and the months after, and he had watched her feelings for him shift toward friendship. Surprisingly, in the brief phone calls or moments she crossed his mind, Sherlock found himself reciprocating.

After considering himself friendless for years and then only making an allowance for John, it was almost alarming how many people about whom Sherlock was actually starting to care. He didn't think he had the ability to maintain these friendships for long. It wasn't in his nature.

Sherlock returned his focus to Lestrade. "As you can see, I am very much alive."

To his surprise, Lestrade got angry. His expression hardened and he stood up. "How could you do that? You went and left us all mourning you while, what, you went on a little holiday?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, locking onto the unexpected word. "Mourning?"

"Damn right! Did you think you weren't important, Sherlock? That we wouldn't care? You _idiot_." Lestrade sighed in frustration, looking as though he'd like nothing more than to acquaint his fist with Sherlock's face. After a moment, during which Sherlock made sure the desk stayed between them, Lestrade gestured toward Sherlock's companion. "If nothing else, why did you do that to _John_?"

A sharp pain ran through Sherlock's chest at those words, just as it had at Mrs. Hudson's similar sentiment that morning. He looked to his friend once again, but John was determinedly staring out the window, his face impassive except for a small tightening around the corners of his eyes.

Sherlock looked back to Lestrade, who had crossed his arms and was glaring at him. This response was more what he had anticipated from his best friend, but he was glad the anger had manifested here. He could take abuse from anyone else better than he could from John.

"I did not go 'on a little holiday.' I was tracking down Moriarty's assassins, who were aimed at you, John, and Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock allowed a slight, mocking smile to cross his face. "You really should be careful about who you hire, Detective Inspector. One of your men had his gun trained on you until I jumped."

Lestrade's expression morphed from anger to surprise and his arms fell loosely at his sides. "I – what?"

"I had to kill myself – else you, Mrs. Hudson, and John would have been shot in the head." Sherlock sighed internally at the thought of repeating his story several times during this "rebirth." "As you can see, I didn't actually die, thanks to the talents of Miss Molly Hooper." As an afterthought, he added. "…and my brother."

Lestrade gaped at him for a moment. "How did you do it?"

Sherlock was considering how much detail to divulge when Sally Donovan burst in, saying,

"Sir, I've had several people come to me claiming Sherlock is back, and I need…" her voice trailed away as she took in the scene before her, and then she and Sherlock made eye contact. With some amusement, Sherlock realized this was the first time he had ever heard her refer to him by his actually name.

"What do you need, Sally?" Sherlock asked, and the sound of his voice snapped her out of her shocked silence.

"Apparently I need to go and apologize." She frowned at him and put her hands on her hips. "You were dead."

"Obviously not."

"But," her eyes went, as Sherlock was beginning to expect, to John. "You didn't tell him?"

"No."

Sally looked as though she was going to say more, but John finally spoke up, saying forcefully. "Alright, yes. Sherlock faked his death, now he's back. I was sad, now I'm happy. Can we move on, please?"

He glared at Sergeant Donovan for a moment, and she seemed about to protest, but his expression left no room for argument. She nodded slowly and then looked at Sherlock.

"You," she pointed at him, "don't leave. I have to get Anderson."

"If you are trying to tempt me to stay, you are doing a very poor job of it." Sherlock replied as she left the room. She waved a hand behind her as she went, effectively blowing him off. Sherlock pursed his lips. The dynamic here had shifted too – was there anything in his life that he could count on?

His eyes sought John, who returned his gaze after just a moment. John half-smiled, slightly embarrassed, and Sherlock nodded.

"Has anything, uh, _changed_?" Lestrade asked obliquely, gaining the gaze of both men.

"To what are you referring?" Sherlock asked, choosing to ignore the path his mind unhelpfully started down. _Barrier_.

"Just…in general, you know. I mean…" Lestrade looked incredibly uncomfortable, like he was wishing he hadn't said anything. "You were gone for over a year. Any new… developments I should know about?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "I do not believe so. John?" he glanced at his companion.

John shook his head. "It's been like a day. I don't know what you expected to change."

Lestrade nodded and seemed to get a hold of himself. "Of course. So how's Mary?"

John looked at him strangely. "Mary's fine. We talked last night."

"Good, good." Lestrade nodded, but before he had the chance to say anything Donovan was back, this time with Anderson in tow. Sherlock mentally rolled his eyes.

"Oh my god." Anderson pointed at Sherlock, his eyes wide. "I thought you were having me on…it's really him. He's back." Donovan nodded and then, to the surprise of everyone in the room, Anderson stepped forward and hugged Sherlock.

Sherlock stood completely still as Anderson's arms wrapped around him and three main thoughts controlled his mind.

The first, most dominant, was, _What the hell?!_

Then, more eloquently, _I must reevaluate the way others view me and take action accordingly._

And the last, which was egging him to step away, was the short but apt, _Ugh!_

The hug didn't last long, thankfully, but once it was over Sherlock had to consciously tell himself to unclench his fists, which had balled up at his sides.

Anderson looked away as he stepped back, redness rising on his face. "Er, sorry," he coughed, not making eye contact with anyone in the room. Sherlock took a step toward John. "It's just – you're alive!"

"I am aware." Sherlock replied once he managed to find his voice. _That was certainly…unexpected. And unpleasant._

Anderson looked as though he was about to flee. "I just thought – I didn't know what to say – I wanted to show – oh, hell."

While he had always enjoyed tormenting Anderson, seeing the man like this was just uncomfortable. "You have made yourself perfectly clear. You are glad I am back. Let's move on, shall we?"

"Yes," Anderson nodded. "Yes, let's do that."

Lestrade took pity. "Anderson, don't you have work to do?"

Anderson turned to look at him, the relief evident on his face. "I do, sir. Good bye." He nodded quickly at the room as a whole and took off.

Sherlock couldn't help himself – he glanced at John. When the two of them made eye contact they both started chuckling and had to struggle to keep from full-blown laughter.

Life was never going to be the same.

But as long as he could still laugh with his best friend, Sherlock knew everything would be okay.


	6. Strain

**A/N: This has taken me far longer than I'm comfortable with, but it couldn't be helped – I had my wisdom teeth removed, and work has been crazy, and my family just got a new kitten. Plus I've been house-watching for a coworker **_**and**_** dog-sitting for my dad's friend. Phew! But I'm still dedicated to this story, and I hope to get the next chapters up in a more timely manner. I'm headed back to college in a week and a half, and I'll actually have more time to write there. So, please, bear with me! I really appreciate your support!**

Sherlock lay sprawled across his bed, facedown, body bare apart from his white sheet. He tried very hard _not_ to think about what John was doing right now. Or, more importantly, what he was doing with Mary.

More than a week had passed since John and Sherlock had surprised the Yard. Apart from solving a relatively simple case in under a day, they hadn't actually seen much of each other. John still worked at the surgery, and he went home to shower and change before venturing out.

Three of those nights out were spent with Sherlock, which John enjoyed but left from feeling dissatisfied, like something should have happened that didn't.

Three were spent with Mary, which John used to plug that uncomfortable pit in his abdomen.

One was spent out drinking with Stamford, where John tried to laugh and just forget about the increasingly confused feelings within him.

And one night John was so exhausted he fell asleep the moment he got home, which led to three progressively worried text messages and a silent visit, which Sherlock left from feeling exceedingly annoyed that he'd worried at all.

When they were together, Sherlock and John didn't do much. One of the nights Sherlock had been in the midst of an experiment and John left after barely an hour. The next night was spent in almost complete silence as Sherlock thought on the couch and John read in a chair – but he stayed until almost midnight that time, so he must have enjoyed it. The third night they got dinner at Angelo's and enjoyed light conversation, although there was an awkward moment when John mentioned Mary, and things weren't quite so easy after that.

So now Sherlock was alone in 221B, trying to sleep but unable because he had seen John with Mary just a few hours earlier, and he knew what she was thinking, and how John would respond, and for a brief moment Sherlock wished he wasn't quite so observant so he could have missed these signals.

He buried his face in his pillow and started listing the periodic table of elements.

_Hydrogen, oxygen, magnesium, fluorine, neon, germanium, krypton, rubidium, yttrium, vanadium…_

_Mary, running her hands through John's hair as she kisses him._

_John pulling her closer, enveloping her in his steady embrace._

_Their fingers twining together, linking the two as one…_

Sherlock flipped onto his back and shoved the heels of his hands into his eyes, trying to drive the images out. He wanted to get up and distract himself, but he'd been doing that so often lately that he was too tired to even get on his feet. Every time he tried black dots swarmed in front of his eyes.

_Although,_ he mused, _if I pass out I could escape these infuriating mental images._

Then, in the midst of hazy exhaustion, those images changed.

_John, running his hands though Sherlock's hair, their lips meeting in a passionate kiss._

_Sherlock pulling John closer, pressing his face to John's neck and breathing him in._

_Their hands clasped together, a visual representation of their indefinable connection._

And for once Sherlock's avid imagination, which helped him solve so many cases and tore him apart when left to idle, used its incredibly power to soothe. His head and heart were always in a constant battle – until this moment, when they weren't.

His eyes slipped closed, one arm curling loosely around a pillow, and for just this night, Sherlock allowed himself to indulge in his fantasy.

…

John glanced over at Mary's sleeping face, relaxed and peaceful, and started to think of the future.

_We'll stay in London._ He couldn't imagine Sherlock anywhere else, and John knew Mary wouldn't make him leave his friend. _Maybe get a house?_

A house had never been definitively in his plans, but Mary would probably want a family, and there was no reason to raise children in a flat. Money was, interestingly, no longer a worry.

"John?" Mary mumbled, turning toward him slightly. John brushed her hair out of her face, but she seemed to still be asleep.

"I love you," he murmured, placing a chaste kiss on her forehead. Her mouth twitched toward a smile, but she was too far gone to reply.

John rested his head against hers and took a deep breath, letting his muscles relax. As he was slipping off an unexpected image crossed his mind: a small, private cottage. And bees.

…

"She wants to spend time with you." John couldn't understand Sherlock's unwillingness in this matter.

"I fully understand what you are saying, John. I do not want to spend time with her." Sherlock didn't even look up from the book he had picked up in his clear 'I'm not putting any effort into this conversation' stance.

"Why not?" Sherlock and Mary were the two most important people in John's life. He wanted them to be able to spend time together. It would be nice not to have to split himself between them so often.

"She does not interest me."

John threw his hands up in defeat. "No one interests you!" Then, as an afterthought, he muttered, "No one who's alive, anyway."

At this, Sherlock looked up. He tilted his head. "You interest me."

John blinked, unsure of how to respond. Compliments from Sherlock were few and far between, and never were they that blunt.

They stared at each other for a moment, and then Sherlock looked back to his book.

_Bee Pollination in Agricultural Ecosystems_

John wondered why that seemed familiar.

"Well, uh, thank you. I think."

Sherlock did not acknowledge him.

John rolled his eyes and sat down in his chair across from the exasperating man. They sat in silence for a minute, and then John decided to try again.

"Just dinner."

Sherlock sighed and closed his book with a sharp _snap_. "If I agree, will you _please_ talk about anything else?"

John frowned and Sherlock's mouth twitched. If it hadn't been completely illogical, John would have thought he was amused. "Fine."

"Good." Sherlock folded his hands, but then his expression soured. "You're not done."

_It's like he's reading my mind!_ "Almost. Tonight?"

"Whatever."

"Here?"

"Why?"

John debated being honest. "If I say anywhere else, you may squirm your way out of it. Here, I can just stay with you until we eat."

"Fine." Well, that wasn't too hard. Sherlock was being his normal belligerent self, but John was used to it.

Although, if John thought about it, there had been more moments of Sherlock's humanity since he'd returned. He smiled more, and fits like these were reserved almost exclusively for conversations about Mary.

What was going on with his friend?

"Are you alright?" John asked, hoping Sherlock heard the actual curiosity and, yes, worry within the question.

"Of course I'm alright. Why wouldn't I be?"

John shrugged. "I don't know. That's why I asked."

Sherlock watched him carefully. "Are _you_ alright?"

_Am I?_ John wondered. He was getting a jittery feeling in his stomach now that he'd won the argument, which was odd. Usually he felt better when he got his way. "Fine." He caught Sherlock's eye and half-smiled. "Why wouldn't I be?"

Sherlock returned the smile and leaned forward, placing his forearms on his legs. "Lestrade sent me a new file. Nothing time-sensitive – I'm pretty sure it's a cold case he's been holding back – but it turned out to be very interesting."

"What's it about?" John asked, settling into his chair.

_I've missed this, _he thought, watching Sherlock's eyes light up as he talked about the blood spatter in his cold case. He got so animated when he was excited; his hands shaped the scene before him, his curls bobbing as he described the method of murder. John found himself completely entranced.

Sherlock was very thorough, going over every detail, and it was nearly twenty minutes later when John's phone interrupted him from the beginning of his observations of what had happened.

"Sorry." John said, glancing at the caller ID as he pressed the button to answer. "Hey!"

"Hi, sweetie. How are you?" Mary's warm voice came through the line.

"I'm great. You?"

"Good," he could hear her smile over the line. "Did you talk to him about dinner?"

"I did." John realized he was supposed to call her once he knew, and he grimaced. "Sorry I didn't call earlier."

"It's fine. What did he say?"

"He said it would be his pleasure." Sherlock glared at him and John shrugged. "He even agreed to host."

"Really?" John smiled at the surprise in Mary's voice. "I'll make sure I'm dressed well, then."

John looked down at himself, the casual button-up shirt and his usual jacket, and grimaced. He wouldn't be able to go home and change if he was going to make sure Sherlock didn't ditch. "Don't worry about that, dear. I'm not going to do anything special."

"You're planning to stay there, aren't you?"

John chuckled at the matter-of-factness in her tone. "I've got to make sure he doesn't scarper."

"So not his _complete_ pleasure." John was glad she found it amusing. "I'll be there 'round seven?"

"Sounds wonderful. See you then."

"Love you."

"Love you, too," he replied, then hung up.

Sherlock stared at him and John felt the back of his neck heat up when they made eye contact.

"What?" he asked, not entirely sure why he was having that reaction. Sherlock narrowed his eyes for a moment, like he was searching for something, and then he shrugged and looked away.

John waited a moment, and then said, "She'll be here around seven."

"Wonderful." Sherlock replied, and John couldn't tell if he was mocking him.

There was an awkward pause.

"So, did you solve it?" John asked, crossing his ankles. _Please, let's go back to normal._

"Solve what?" Sherlock asked, his expression curiously far away. He spoke again before John had a chance to answer. "Oh, the cold case. Yes, it was the hairdresser."

John ran back through everything Sherlock had told him about the case, but he couldn't pinpoint the details that led him to that conclusion. "How so?"

Sherlock glanced sidelong at him, and John could tell he was fighting between being upset and wanting to show off. John gave him a small smile, and Sherlock smirked in response.

"I knew we were looking for a specialized instrument…" he began, and John settled back to listen as Sherlock's deep voice wove a picture of cause out of the convoluted threads of effect.

…

Sherlock was just beginning to put the upcoming meal with Mary out of his mind when John pointed out, "You know, you're hosting. What are we going to eat?"

Sherlock blinked, realizing that he'd forgotten he and John didn't live together anymore. "What would you like?"

It probably would have been more proper to ask what _Mary_ would have liked, but Sherlock's acceptance was already wearing thin.

John shrugged. "I don't think Mary expects anything fancy – I've told her enough about you to stop those delusions," he winked, but Sherlock couldn't bring himself to smile.

"I'm experimenting with the ears in the fridge, she can't have those." Sherlock gave John a look designed to make him laugh. It worked.

"Order something, then," John replied, a smile still on his lips, as he tilted his head toward Sherlock's phone.

With a sigh, Sherlock picked it up from the little table near his chair and scrolled through the contacts until he found something that sounded appealing. John waited patiently while he ordered and Sherlock was struck once again in the stark difference of their personalities.

_How does he tolerate me?_ he wondered to himself as he made the order in flawless Chinese. After verifying their address and receiving confirmation, Sherlock hung up and looked at John expectantly.

"It will be here shortly."

John nodded, distracted by his own phone. "Mary will be, too."

Sherlock had to stop the grimace and then took a minute to get a hold of himself.

_John loves her._ That was what mattered. If there was one person in the world Sherlock wanted to be happy, it was John.

Several minutes later John's phone buzzed and he read the message, then stood to leave.

"No magic disappearing trick," he paused at the doorway, looking back at Sherlock. Sherlock nodded and John turned and went down the stairs.

_John loves her, John loves her, John loves her._ Sherlock chanted in his head, ignoring the ache in his chest. Since when had his emotions had such a hold within him? It happened so gradually he hadn't even thought to guard himself against it.

John and Mary entered the room, his hand resting against her lower back. That was the first detail Sherlock took in; he ran through the others quickly but found nothing of significance.

_Fresh make-up, new blouse, old jeans. Chewed fingernails; nervous._

There were more, but Sherlock disregarded them before they formed any actual words in his mind.

"Mary," he said, standing.

"Sherlock," she responded, smiling slightly.

_This is going to be a long night._

…

_Well, it could have been worse._ John thought, running back through the past two hours. After their short greeting, all three had been saved of saying anything more by the arrival of the food. Then they were all so distracted with getting plates, clearing a place to sit, and divvying up the food that conversation didn't even matter for a good twenty minutes.

Once everything was in place, Mary had tried to get Sherlock to talk. He gave her succinct answers, only going into detail if she asked.

John grimaced, remembering when she mentioned Molly.

"_John says you spend a lot of time at the morgue. Are you there visiting Molly?"_

_John almost choked on his food, but he managed to take a sip of water and get over it._

_Sherlock eyed Mary speculatively. "No, I'm conducting experiments. Or retrieving body parts."_

_John was proud when Mary didn't even seem surprised. "Naturally," she replied. "But perhaps running into her is a bonus?"_

"_You mean burden?" Sherlock responded._

"_Sherlock!" John said sharply. Sherlock looked at him and his face softened slightly._

"_Molly is nice. But I prefer to work without distractions," he told Mary._

"_So you don't have a girlfriend, then?" she asked. John had a moment of déjà-vu; that sounded almost exactly like what he'd said, all those years ago in Angelo's._

_Sherlock met John's eyes, but he couldn't read the expression there. "No, I don't."_

"_Haven't found the right girl yet, then?" she pushed. John had to admire her tenacity._

"_I'm not looking." Sherlock replied, focusing on his food._

"_He's married to his work." John joined in, hoping to move the conversation forward. "He doesn't have time for that kind of thing."_

_Mary looked at him curiously. "He has time for you."_

"_That's different. I help him."_

"_A girl couldn't help him?"_

"_I didn't say that. Are there girls who want to?" John hoped Sherlock wouldn't take offense._

"_I wouldn't mind."_

_Silence._

John shook his head, letting it fall back against his couch cushions. Mary was nestled under his arm, focused on the programme they were watching.

"Are you alright?" she asked.

"Fine," he smiled at her. "Just thinking about dinner."

"I thought it went well." Mary's expression turned thoughtful. "He was much nicer than I expected, after all your warnings."

"He was definitely trying." John squeezed her arm. "I think he was coming around, by the end."

"He smiled at me!" she grinned up at him and John kissed the tip of her nose.

"He did." That had surprised him; Sherlock had given Mary an honest smile at the end of their visit, though it could have been encouraged by his relief in having the flat to himself again. John had noticed the twitching in his fingers; Sherlock was going to be playing the violin for hours tonight. For a moment, he regretted he wouldn't get to hear it.

"But no one can resist your charm for long!" John started tickling her and Mary laughed.

"No, John, stop!" she cried, twisting under his grasp.

"Really?" he asked, lessening but not completely stopping. Mary answered by grabbing the collar of his shirt and pulling him down for a kiss.

It was a while before they spoke again.

…

Vivaldi's _Violin Concerto in A Minor_ came pouring from beneath Sherlock's hands as he focused on the short bow strokes and delicate fingering. He stood by the window, looking out across the darkness, and let the music paint a picture in his mind.

It reminded him of running through the streets of London, John's footsteps pounding along behind him as they chased after their latest criminal. Sherlock felt the heaviness of breath and the crispness in the air, his coattails flapping behind him and the gravel beneath his feet.

The music reached its end and Sherlock took a deep breath, releasing the memory and feeling the warmth of his heated flat. He looked around to remind himself where he was and then went to lie on the couch, missing the quiet approval that always came from John after a performance on his beloved instrument.

_John_. Sherlock placed his fingers over his lips, intending to think things over and get everything straight in his head.

But for the first time in a long time, Sherlock Holmes fell asleep before he was ready, without trying or realizing it was happening.

His hands fell limp as his breathing evened out, and in his slumber his head tilted slightly to the side – toward the discarded black and white jumper which had somehow made its way onto the couch, half-hidden by a dislodged cushion.

**A/N: I don't feel like this is my best, but I'm tired of it being almost-finished and knowing there are people waiting to read it. I hope you liked it!**


	7. Letter

Sherlock looked around John's flat, remembering the man had told him his skull remained. John was in his room, busy getting dressed since Sherlock had shown up while it was still dark outside, claiming Lestrade had an important case.

"Important" was a relative term, but Sherlock had wanted the chance to look around John's flat without being observed, and now he had the ability to do so.

There were signs of John's relationship with Mary, but none to indicate the level of commitment they seemed to exude in person. Sherlock wasn't sure if this was because John liked having his space clear (unlikely, considering how he had lived with Sherlock) or if it was an indication that things may not be as easy between the couple as they seemed (desirable, but inconclusive).

Sherlock found his skull and went to pick it up, smiling slightly. He opened his mouth to say some small words of welcome, but then several sheets of paper, held together with tape, fell out.

Sherlock looked at them curiously, bending down to pick them up. He turned the sheets over and was surprised to see his own name, written in John's hand.

The door to John's room opened and Sherlock whirled around, placing the skull back where he found it and slipping the note into his pocket in one fluid motion.

"Alright, let's go." John said, rubbing his face with his hands. Sherlock smiled.

…

It turned out Lestrade's case wasn't _quite_ as urgent as Sherlock had made it seem, and John sulked for most of the cab ride home. Sherlock considered apologizing, but he thought John was being a bit childish crossing his arms and refusing to talk, so he remained quiet.

They pulled up to Baker Street and John was halfway out of the cab before he realized the problem.

"Oh," he said, pausing with his hand on the door. "I'll just go home, then."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes in confusion. "You may come in."

"Right, yeah, but…" John looked up at the window, and Sherlock fancied he saw a bit of longing in his eyes. "I just want to go back to sleep."

"There is still a second bedroom here." Sherlock replied. "And I will be studying this case; I can use your assistance when you wake. It will be simpler if you stay."

John nodded and, since Sherlock had already paid the fare, shut the cab door and followed his friend into what used to be their shared space.

Sherlock watched as John trudged up the second set of stairs and waited until he heard the bedroom door close – then he pulled the letter out of his pocket and reclined on the couch, eager to read.

_Sherlock,_

_Why? That's the biggest thought running through my mind, the question that is tearing me apart. Why? Why did you say those things? Why did you call me? Why did you – _the word here is hard to make out, but Sherlock managed – _jump?_

_I've tried to answer it a thousand different ways, but I can't. You are always so logical, but that wasn't logic. I heard your voice. You were in pain. Why didn't you tell me something was wrong?_

_You're not a machine. I'm sorry I said that. I'm sorry I said a lot of things, and I wish I could tell you face-to-face. I wish I could show you that I mean it, that I was wrong and I'm sorry. I just want you back._

_Damn you, Sherlock. You're my best friend. You saved me. But then you had to go and do this one your own – you had to let Moriarty get to you. Didn't you see I was there with you every step of the way? You held a gun to my head and I barely even flinched. What the hell, Sherlock? _

_You never talk. That's the problem. I mean, sure, you talk all the time, but never about anything important. I've lived with you for a while now, and I still don't know so many things. Why are you and Mycroft always fighting? Why don't you talk to your parents? What did you do at university? Why did you start – and stop – doing drugs? I know you better than anyone, and yet I feel like I don't know you at all._

_I gave you everything, Sherlock. You were my whole world. And you knew it, too. All those girlfriends – you couldn't get the names straight, but that's because you're an arse. I should have been better, but I wasn't. I came at your beck and call, and I was _grateful_. I was doing something with purpose again, and you are fascinating. Watching you work is better…well, it's better than anything._

_And you just _left_! One phone call, and then you're gone. I had to _watch_, Sherlock. I watched you_ – here the handwriting got incredibly shaky; John was obviously upset – _I had to witness that. I felt your lifeless wrist._

_I've lost so many people. You know that. You know that and STILL you did what you did. Why did I have to lose you too? This is so much worse, worse than anyone else. And it doesn't make sense! You weren't in danger – how could you be? You're more brilliant than anyone else. I heard it in your voice. You were making a choice, and you chose to go. You tried to smear your own name, lied to me, and then you were just…gone._

_I miss you, you idiot. You stupid, stupid man. Did you forget I have a gun? I've had to lock it away to stop myself from using it. But why would you care? You might even support it – after all, suicide was the right choice for you._

_I want to believe you're alive. I can't imagine a world without you in it; that's not a world I want to know. I'm scared of what's going to happen. What's going to happen to me. And who's going to stop the criminals now? Lestrade? I can already hear your laughter._

_Come back, Sherlock. That's all I want. Take everything else, rip me apart and take me piece by piece – all I ask is that you come back._

_Please._

Sherlock can tell there was a pause here, because when John starts writing again his letters are a little more pronounced.

_But you can't. I've seen your grave, and all that's left is a slab of black marble. 14 letters – Sherlock Holmes – that's it._

_Damn it._

_I was going to be with you forever._

_John_

Sherlock let his hand fall, setting the papers in his lap. His mind was racing. He'd known John was his friend, of course, but he hadn't realized until this moment just how badly John had hurt, or how much Sherlock had meant to him. Sherlock's stomach tightened painfully at John's suicidal thoughts – would he really have considered it?

_Yes._ Sherlock's knowledge of his friend answered. He'd seen it when they first met, the lack of appetite, psychosomatic limp, trembling hand, and general apathy toward the world. John Watson's PTSD and depression had been a flashing light above his head for the mind of Sherlock Holmes. At first Sherlock had tried to fix John just to see if he could – then he continued to fix him, because he wanted to. He needed his army doctor, whole and well once more.

_And then I broke him again._

Sherlock lifted the letter and reread it, his eyes lingering over certain passages. John's parting words, in particular, left quite the impression on Sherlock's mind.

_I was going to be with you forever._

They'd never talked about the future. Sherlock had always assumed he'd die early – it wasn't until he'd met John that he considered the alternative. But then, John was so very normal. Surely he would have left Sherlock at some point, found Mary or another woman eventually and settled down, started a family. Sherlock figured they would drift apart, once John was ready to slow down.

Slowing down was not Sherlock's style.

Sherlock laid on the couch for hours, reading and rereading the letter until he had it memorized; then reading it some more. John had said nothing of it after Sherlock's return, perhaps considered it unnecessary, no longer relevant.

Sherlock's mind started to do what it did best – analyze. He slipped into his mind palace and navigated his way to a single room: John's room. His best friend's smiling face greeted him as he opened the door, and Sherlock starting stitching together the data.

All those moments before his fall, the times of high energy and adrenaline, looking at each other in the hallway – obvious chemistry.

John's jealous reactions, hidden behind caring friendship – what normal friend would count the number of times Irene texted him? Territorial male reaction; maybe it wasn't consciously, but John considered Sherlock _his_.

Absolute confidence and trust; as John said, Sherlock had held a gun to his head and he'd barely flinched. His questions are honest, not mocking, and despite Sherlock's predilection for doing the right thing for the wrong reasons, John sees him as good. Complete belief in a man everyone else labeled as _wrong_.

This letter.

And since his return, the increase of physical contact, John assuring himself Sherlock is alive. His equal or greater preference for Sherlock's company over Mary's – easily forgetting he no longer lives at 221B, still willing to follow Sherlock on cases, forgetting to call…when they're together, Sherlock is the only one John sees.

All these details and many others came together in Sherlock's head, leading him to the only logical conclusion:

_John Watson is in love with me._

**A/N: I know, a bit shorter this time. I hope you liked it, regardless!**


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